


Mordred Lives a Life of Never-ending Misery ft. Rhongomyniad

by Hatsage7



Series: Mordred and Saberfaces [1]
Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Dismemberment, Gen, Gore, for the record it's almost entirely a Mordred & Artoria fic, nothing brings a family together like losing a limb, the other characters are bit parts but i felt the need for accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsage7/pseuds/Hatsage7
Summary: Mordred always has a bad time, but now something even *worse* happens to Lancer Artoria. hooraaaaayyyyyyBased on https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/71407146#big_8Fair warning: GORE. It's the whole point, so watch out.
Relationships: Mordred | Saber of Red & Artoria Pendragon | Lancer
Series: Mordred and Saberfaces [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881649
Comments: 1
Kudos: 47





	1. Loss

Mordred slammed her sword into the last of the snow-white homunculi on the field, causing the monster to collapse in on itself as her enchanted sword cut through the last bits of magic holding it together. This lesser Singularity had been full of them, and while they were supernaturally tough and strong, they were not particularly good fighters; they were no match for a fully-blooded knight of the Round Table such as herself.

Or her companions, for that matter. With all enemies dealt with, Mordred allowed herself a moment to glance behind at her other party members, the archer Tristan and a version of her _illustrious_ father, Artoria Pendragon, summoned in an aspect most comfortable riding arrogantly on a pure white steed and wielding the a more divine version of the lance that had killed her.

Still, Mordred couldn’t fault her Master’s strategy. She may have resented being teamed up with the Round Table's most insufferable romantic and the woman who was somehow even colder and more distant than Mordred remembered -- but damn if they hadn’t made short work of the enemies in their way. They effortlessly covered each others’ weaknesses in fighting styles, and Tristan provided ample healing while Mordred and… the other woman smashed the enemy to pieces.

With the waves of mindless cannon fodder exhausted, the last two enemies of the Singularity appeared for one grand battle at the end. It was a reflection of the Camelot she had known, one where a much weaker version of Merlin had seized the Holy Grail and used it to warp the kingdom as he saw fit -- included a corrupted version of Artoria, an empty imitation of the alternate, unholy, blackened version that Mordred had seen in Chaldea on occasion.

Regardless of how authentic these versions of her old acquaintances might have been, they were still strong. Power radiated off of them like heat from a furnace. The best strategy would be to have Tristan finish the stronger version of the King of Knights, but even with his class advantage against Sabers...

“Mordred; Mana Burst, then take her down!” Her Master delivered the order with a particular note of authority, casting spells that healed her minor wounds and empowered her sword.

Mordred grinned. Her master was strengthening her to take the field on her own, while the others merely sat back and watched the show. She allowed the magical power of her Clarent to flow, just enough to make her attacks particularly ruthless. Leaping into the air, she brought her sword down _hard_ onto her opponent’s guard, driving furious blow after furious blow that cracked the ground beneath the corrupted Servant’s feet. Their mindless form flailed in a desperate defense, Mordred’s blade clashing as much against the woman’s armor as her wild parries.

Mordred let loose a final flurry of weaker, but lightning fast blows as she retreated -- and she realized that she had fallen just inches short of actually slaying the swordswoman, who was gushing blood and golden particles in every direction.

“Damn.” Mordred braced herself for the retaliation that was sure to follow, suddenly glad that her master had healed her. Sure enough, as “Merlin” cast a spell to strengthen both of the enemies’ attack, the Saber Alter raised flat it to the level of her eye, dashed forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, and --

Mordred experienced the next handful of heartbeats only through sounds, as her eyes could not track the enemy Servant quickly enough. The _woosh_ of clothing as the figure tore past her. The quieter _swish_ of a blade flying through the air. The _crunch_ of metal tearing through more metal, flesh and bone.

And then a woman’s voice screaming, in horrible, abject agony, interrupted only when the sword cut through the air again, barely a moment after the first blow, and something landed with a meaty _splat_ on the ground before there was another wail of anguish.

Mordred’s head had barely turned an inch before the shade landed in front of her, and slammed its pommel right between Mordred’s eyes. The knight had to stagger back from the raw power of even such a casual blow, feeling as though her head had actually been split open.

  
  


“Mordred!”

She whirled around at the sound of her master’s voice --

And her heart leapt into her throat.

Tristan and her Master, who should have been far, far behind them, were both running towards the King of Knights, who had been knocked off of her horse onto the ground, her divine lance off to the side as she gripped her left shoulder.

Because Artoria was on one side of her horse -- a warbeast that never panicked, now whinnying and threatening to rear up in the face of his rider’s sudden fall -- and her left arm was laying severed on the other.

“Mordred!” Her master shouted again, and she somehow managed to tear her eyes away from the gruesome sight to see a glowing Command Seal . “I order you --”

“No!’ She roared, rage boiling over inside of her as the full realization of what had happened slammed into her like a battering ram. “You fucking fix her _first!_ I can beat them on my own!”

“-- then I order you with a Command Spell, Servant of the Lancer class -- use all of your power to stay alive for as long as possible!” The master dropped down next to the fallen King of Knights, placing the now burning red hand onto the Servant’s shoulder as she let out a pained groan.

Mordred whirled back around to face the enemy. She didn’t need to see the others administering care. The shade had been stupid enough to strike Mordred after brutalizing her father. The first action had given her just enough energy to unleash her Noble Phantasm; the second had made her mad enough not to care how much collateral damage it did.

“Clarent Blood Arthur!” She lifted her sword in the air, a cloud blood red magic billowing forth like the creeping shroud of death. Mordred stepped forward with a single swing of her sword, and the world in front of her disappeared in a beam of red-tinged white.

When her Noble Phantasm had exhausted itself, she let the tip of her sword fall to the ground. There was only a smoking crater where the last Servants of the Singularity, not to mention the other half of the city, had been.

With vengeance delivered, Mordred quickly spun around and ran over to her party, who were struggling to get the Lion King to her feet. Mordred tried not to look too closely at the amputation, but she saw plainly that the bleeding was just barely under control, thanks only to Tristan’s powerful healing magics and the use of an all-powerful Command Seal as strong in its own way as any Noble Phantasm.

A thought crossed Mordred’s mind -- _if Master hadn’t used their own healing spell on me --_

Her thought was cut short as her feet carried her over to her father’s side, and her Master moved away to let Mordred take the rest of her weight.

“Get her back to the initial location so we can get the hell out of here. Tristan, get to the summoning circle and make sure it’s clear. I’ll get the Grail, the… the arm, a-and contact Chaldea.”

Both Servants nodded wordlessly, and quickly did as their Master instructed as the Singularity began to fall apart, the sky darkening and the ground crumbling at an alarming rate.

Mordred moved as quickly as she could, struggling to keep the much taller woman upright, who was wincing in pain with every hasty step.

“Keep it together, you bastard,” Mordred strained to say, “Bedivere lost his fucking arm, and you don’t see him crying about it.”

Her father whimpered -- actually _whimpered_ , like a frightened animal -- and bit down on her lip to keep from making any more noise.

Mordred would have hit herself if she could spare a hand. "Shit, I didn’t mean that. I’m such an asshole, like I know anything about losing an arm. Y-you can cry all you want after Da Vinci fixes you, okay? I don’t think anyone would fault you after going through that shit, but I need you to keep it together until that Command Spell goes away.” Mordred stumbled a little, and had to slow down to get her arms in a better position around her father. “You can do that, right? You can hold things together until we’re out of the Singularity?”

Her father didn’t say anything, but gripped her by forearm and almost crushed herself against Mordred.

“Hey, I asked you a question! We both know you love the whole stoic, silent asshole bit, but I need you to talk to me this one goddamned time!” Mordred glared up at the taller woman, looking into eyes that were dull not just from the usual lack of emotion, but from pain making her hazy and unfocused

The Lion King let out a pained cry, suddenly slumping to the side and threatening to pull Mordred down to the ground with her. She just had to support so much dead weight; it was like trying to pull a tree stump when the dirt around it was alive, grabbing it with both hands and refusing to let go.

But Mordred was also a stubborn bastard. She kept dragging her father along with her, shoving her shoulder underneath the taller woman’s ribcage until she was practically carrying her on her back. She had no idea how much further it was to the exit, or how long she had been moving. It felt like her father had been dying for hours now, and she was exhausted, emotional fatigue taking a physical toll. The winds were howling now, the sky a blackened shade of grey as all life and magical energy bled out of the world.

She felt the King of Knights murmur something, saying words in a weak croak that she couldn’t make out. “I didn’t quite catch that, old lady! You’re missing an arm, not a lung, so speak up!”

Her father coughed weakly, then spoke again in a barely audible voice. “I said that you need to take my spear and throw it in a body of water when I die. It might not disappear with me and you need to get rid of it.”

Mordred’s grip tightened around her father. “You’re not going to die! Master gave me a job and I have to do it! I’ll kill you if you die and fuck this up for me!”

The King -- Artoria chuckled, more human than she had ever sounded, and in an almost dreamy voice said, “You killed me before, Mordred. Don’t be mad because I did it myself this time.”

Mordred trembled and nearly fell to her knees. She was going to say something else when her Master appeared next to her, yanking at her shoulder.

“It’s just a few feet that way! We’re nearly there.”

“Help me carry her! I think she’s getting worse.”

Her master cursed, dipping behind her and reappearing on the other side of Artoria, taking some of weight and placing a hand to the wound again. “The magic’s fading! The wound is too severe! I order you with a second Command Spell, Servant of the Lancer class -- seal your wound and stay alive!”

There was a brilliant, sustained burst of light, and when it died down, Mordred felt Artoria’s chest heave on her back. The king started coughing furiously, and Mordred had never wanted to run away from a place as much as she did right now.

Tristan ran in front of them, indicating in a circle around his feet which promptly started glowing. “They’re ready for us! Where is the king’s sword and horse?”

“They vanished a while ago! We have to leave, _now!_ ” They were all shouting at the top of their lungs, the Singularity seconds away from collapsing into a loud, dark maelstrom, if they had even that much time. The four of them gathered in the summoning circle, and began to vanish in a haze of golden light. Mordred closed her eyes as wind whipped dust into her eyes --

And then she was blinded by fluorescents and deafened by silence as they reappeared and Chaldea.

There was a brief commotion as rubber gloved hands took Artoria’s body from her, support staff directed by Da Vinci’s precise instructions. Mordred just stood in place, eyes locked onto her father's as she was strapped onto a gurney. For a moment, Artoria’s mouth opened and closed, as if she was trying to say something -- and then she was wheeled down the winding corridors of the facility.

A hand was placed on her shoulder, and Mordred was aware of how deeply she had been breathing. She turned and saw her master looking at her with a concerned expression and tired eyes.

“They’ll be examining her for a while. Several hours, and then probably more for surgery if they need it, to make sure her Saint Graph isn’t damaged. You… should try to get some rest.”

Mordred scoffed a little. “Speak for yourself. Two Command Spells in one mission, I’m surprised you’re still conscious.”

The magus’s mouth quirked, in what wasn’t a smile but also wasn’t quite displeased enough to be a frown. “Mordred… she’s going to be okay. Promise me you won’t worry too much? You need --”

Mordred spat out, “I wouldn’t worry over _her_. She wouldn’t do the same for me. I’ll be in my room, Master, let me know when you need me again.” She stalked off, marching around a corner before they could offer a rebuttal.

\----------------------------------

Hours passed. There was no real indication of time in Chaldea, being suspended outside of reality, but Mordred heard commotion even from inside her room. People were walking past her door, lots of them headed to the mess or just a few going to train or occupy themselves or whatever. Mordred couldn’t be bothered to care.

The only thing she really wanted to do was rest. She _was_ tired, from clearing a Singularity in a single sortie and using her Noble Phantasm without being properly focused. The stuff with her father had thrown her, but it honestly wasn’t that big a deal. Artoria had been injured. That was all.

Except, something was still eating at her, because she had been so _weak_ that one of her party members had been grievously injured. Her Master had needed to use healing on her, and didn’t have it when it would’ve done the most good. Having to use one Command Spell for such a simple mission was already a dire usage of perhaps Chaldea’s most valuable resource, but using _two_ would surely impact the Master’s strategy for the next two or three days. To say nothing of the fact that they had just lost objectively one of their most powerful servants. All because _Mordred_ hadn’t been tough enough, or strong enough to do her job properly.

She was sure that this was why she wasn’t able to get any rest. She was still wearing her armor, so she wasn’t even laying in bed, but sitting on a table and staring at the floor. Everytime she thought about dismissing her armor, or even physically taking it off, she turned her head and saw the massive splatter of blood running down her shoulder and onto her chest, and all she could think of was her father’s face twisted in pain, the likes of which she had never seen on any version of that woman, let alone that particular aspect.

The problem, obviously, was that Mordred hadn’t been _strong_ enough. How could she rest when she was still so weak? She needed to train more, to catch up to where she already should have been, and then to surpass it to make up for the Lion King no longer being able to fight! That was why she was so restless.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made, and the angrier she got. She had to do something to work all of this fucking stress out. Before she even really knew it, she was marching towards the Rayshift area, an itching like knives under her skin forcing her to find somewhere and someone to fight.

“Mordred.”

Mordred pivoted around in a semi-circle, facing the person who had spoken from behind her. It was her father, of course, dressed exactly the same as ever; her crown, raiment, and pieces of armor were exactly the same as they would be on any other day.

Except for the bandages blanketed tightly around the left part of her chest. They were a stark white against her blue uniform, save for the deep red that seeped from around the wound at her shoulder. It was _still_ bleeding, even as they stood there, droplets running down Artoria’s side, her movements while walking had splattered the side of her breast. 

“What are you doing?” Mordred demanded, without really thinking. “Did you reopen your wound already? Did they even finish with surgery? Why --”

Her father held up a hand, and Mordred bit her tongue. It was exactly the same gesture she had seen countless times at court and at the Round Table, used when the King no longer needed to listen and signaled for silence. “The blade was enchanted with some manner of corruption, or poison perhaps. They will not be able to fully restore me, or even know if I can be fully restored for some hours yet. My arm was succumbing to the effects far faster than my person, and I am likely alive thanks only to the Command Spells and the dematerialization of my Saint Graph. And your own strength in carrying me before the Singularity collapsed, of course. How are you?”

The abruptness of the question caught Mordred off guard. She ground her teeth and went back to marching down the hallway. "I've still got both arms, so I've got nothing to complain about. You probably shouldn’t be walking around, right? We can talk later." Or never, which went unsaid but was implied by her tone.

Artoria followed behind her rather than moving to be by her side. "Your armor still has my blood on it. Why haven't you changed yet?"

Mordred stopped in her tracks. She considered quickly dismissing then resummoning her armor just to prove a point -- but the idea of being without her armor, even for a few seconds -- 

"It doesn't matter how clean it is; I have training to do."

Artoria placed a hand on Mordred's hair, gripping it ever so slightly and stroking it with her thumb. "The Master will not be doing more training today. Do you mean to throw yourself into battle alone?"

"If I have to, yeah. I'll go back and kill those monsters as many times as I need to."

"You obliterated the enemy and collapsed the Singularity. I would say that they have already been thoroughly vanquished."

Mordred swatted her father's hand from her hair. “ _You_ don’t understand,” she snarled.

The King of Knights just shrugged. “Explain it to me, then.”

“If I had been strong enough, they wouldn’t have hurt you!” She slammed her fist into the wall, cracking the plaster and denting the metal underneath. “I need to be better! So I’m going back to that Singularity, or one just like it, and I’m going to _kill_ the fuckers that hurt you, over and over and over again, until I’m strong enough!”

There was a long moment of where neither woman spoke, the only sound coming from Mordred breathing heavily through gritted teeth. She still had her back to her father, sure that if she turned around that she would just see that same look of disgust and pity that she _always_ had, if not that infuriatingly blank face that meant she was trying to hide those same feelings --

Artoria placed her gauntleted hand on the back of her head again. This time, though, felt different in a way that was hard to explain… or maybe Mordred was just noticing what her father had been trying to communicate to her in the first place. She wasn’t grasping her hair, wasn’t trying to restrain her… it was almost like she was trying to comfort Mordred, but not quite? 

"Please calm down, Mordred."

...that might have been the first time her father had ever said 'please'.

Mordred froze. She stood there and just let her father… pet her. She was still filled with rage, but the simple act of her father physically touching her, even in such a small rage, made it that much easier to see things from her perspective. She had just lost an _arm_ , and the trappings of her power. She was reaching out to Mordred, pretty literally.

“You’re strong enough already, Mordred,” Artoria said in a soft voice. “You saved me once today. That’s enough.”

She didn’t say anything. She just took a deep breath, tried to stop baring her fangs and let her arm drop to her side.

“Well. I can’t stop you. I don’t suppose that I ever could.” Artoria pulled her hand away. “I… da Vinci needs me to be in my room, to heal. You were right when you said that I wasn’t supposed to be walking around. Goodbye, Mordred.”

Her father turned around and left her. In a moment of extraordinary self-restraint, she managed to hold back for several seconds before speaking. "Wait."

She turned around awkwardly, gratified to see that her father had a similarly apprehensive expression on her face (if a bit more restrained).

"You're gonna need someone to, like. Help you out. Protect you. And stuff."

Artoria's lips quirked upward for a moment. "Protect me?"

"W-well, yeah. You said something about your Spirit Graph earlier. If that means that you can't summon your Lance -- uh, you can't, right?"

Her father shook her head. "I'm totally helpless, it would seem."

"Yeah, exactly! And, y'know, all the others would be disappointed if you… didn't recover."

"I might even get lost wandering in Chaldea," Artoria said, nodding sagely. "An escort would be necessary and invaluable."

  
Mordred punched her playfully in her (good) shoulder. "I guess it's settled then. If I _gotta_ hang around you until you're better, I _guess_ I could spare the time. Let's hurry up and get you to your room, old lady." She started walking down the hall, alongside her father. For her part, the King of Kings didn't do anything particularly special except to walk particularly close to Mordred's side.

She might not have been strong enough to have saved her father then, but she could be there for her now. Maybe that would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very different sort of fic this time. part of my "i accidentally got Feelings from fanart and i had to process it by writing this"
> 
> i have more of these. almost all of them are about Mordred. on god I will finish the smut that i prefer writing before coming back to this


	2. Shitty Dad Jokes

Mash walked over to where Artoria and Mordred were sitting in the mess hall, together and silent for a change.

“Artoria, senpai told me about what happened to you in that Singularity. I hope you’ve gotten at least a little better… are you in any pain?”

The Lancer swallowed a spoonful of soup and rubbed her chin thoughtfully before answering. “I appreciate your concern, but this wound is honestly nothing to me. I grant you, it was extremely painful to lose my left arm in combat… but I’m “all right” now.”

Mordred nearly choked on her food. She had to hurriedly slam back her drink to keep from coughing, and when Artoria looked away from her and back at Mash, she had gone stiff as a board and was biting down on her lip hard to keep herself from laughing inappropriately. “Y-yes, well… I-I’m glad to hear it! Talk to you later, a-and you too, Mordred!”

Artoria bowed her head sincerely as Mash practically sprinted away from them. Mordred gave her father a hard kick under the table.

She looked at the younger woman with perfectly innocent eyes. “Is something the matter?”

Mordred jabbed a finger into her side angrily. “You can’t be saying stuff like that, old lady. You say everything  _ way _ too seriously, and other people can’t tell if you’re fucking with them.”

“But you can?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious.”

Artoria’s lips jumped upwards for an instant in a malicious parody of a smile. She opened her mouth to speak...

\-----

Artoria was walking idly around the halls of Chaldea in an effort to maintain her stamina through active rest rather than let it wither while she was healing. She crossed paths with one of the many forms of Cu Chulainn (the one most others considered “standard”), the famed Celtic warrior, almost running over the shorter blue-haired man.

He looked up at the woman who had nearly crashed into him with a grin. “Hey, if it isn’t the Lion King! We haven’t had you to help us clear out Archer training grounds, Your Majesty. We miss you!”

She let out a sigh. “Indeed. To my shame, the damage to my Spirit Origin seems to prevent me from summoning Rhongomyniad. I doubt that I’ll be able to wield it until I’ve been fully healed. I’ve been disarmed.”

There was a beat, and then the halls echoed with peals of laughter from Cu. “Ahaha, holy  _ shit _ , Artoria, that’s good! I didn’t think you had that kind of thing in you! ‘Disarmed’ -- gods, that’s outrageous!”

She cocked her head to the side, brow furrowed and eyes wide with rage. “ _ Excuse _ you?”

The color immediately drained from Cu’s face. “Ah -- fuck.”

“Do you think this is  _ funny _ , hound of Ulster? Is the loss of my Noble Phantasm and my  _ dismemberment _ a source of  _ humor _ to you?”

He raised his hands up and began slowly tip-toeing backwards. “N-now wait a minute, Your Majesty, I didn’t --”

“You know, perhaps it  _ is _ that funny,” Artoria continued, curling her remaining hand into a gnarled claw and reaching out toward Cu, “and I’m just too close to the subject matter to judge it fairly. Perhaps you should be disarmed, Cu Chulainn, to see if you still find it so amusing --”

The Lancer was gone as soon as she said his name, sprinting down the hallway as though hell itself were after him. Artoria might have been imagining things, but it almost felt as if he had used a bit of magic to ensure his escape.

She waited for a few moments to make sure that Cu had well and truly fled. Then she let out a low chuckle that grew in volume and intensity until she was doubled over laughing. It took her the better part of a minute to regain her composure enough to wipe a tear from her eye.

“Ohhhh, my. ‘Perhaps  _ you _ should be disarmed.’ I do crack myself up sometimes.”

\-----

Marie Antoinette let out an elegant sigh that expressed how deeply troubled she was while still managing to sound musical. “Goodness, but I fear that I am ruining my figure with all this fighting and modern food. So much fat and muscle, in all the wrong places…”

Artoria, who was sitting outside of the sparring rooms also waiting for Jeanne and Mordred to finish fighting with each other, perked up and glanced over in the Rider’s direction. “Are you having that much trouble with your appearance, Queen of France?” she asked with genuine interest.

Marie sighed again, just as dramatic as before. “Well, I am a Servant now, so it’s not  _ really _ an issue, but I can’t help but feel as though my silhouette has been ruined nonetheless.” She looked Artoria up and down. “I suppose a proper warrior as yourself has little interest in matters of fashion…”

“Oh no, not at all. I’m still royalty, and I’m just as concerned with how others perceive me as you are, even if my build is a little more… robust.” She gestured with her hand to her tall frame, her toned muscles, and her massive chest, as different from the petite Rider’s build as could be.

“I suppose that’s true…” Marie hummed thoughtfully. “Do you think you could tell me how you keep your figure? Despite the contrast between us, I would appreciate any advice you may have.”

“Of course. In fact, I tried this incredible new routine out a while ago to great effect. It’s not for everyone, and requires quite a bit of commitment and sacrifice, but I lost nearly two stone in a single day.”

Marie’s eyes went wide at the audacious claim. “Really!? Oh, you must tell me then! However did you accomplish such a feat?”

Artoria gestured to the bandaged stump of her left shoulder. “I lost an arm.”

Marie let out a quiet, strangled sound, blinked rapidly a few times, then swayed to the side and collapsed on the ground.

“...oops.”

\-----

...and Artoria said to Mordred, “I’m serious too. As serious as losing an arm.”

The Saber sat in silence, clearly stupefied. Artoria allowed herself a moment of pride as she took in another spoonful of soup.

“Huh. Y’know, I thought you were going to say something like, “Hello, serious, I’m dad.” ”

...it seemed that her joke hadn’t quite had the intended effect. “Firstly, these sorts of jokes only work if the audience doesn’t expect them. Secondly… you have to be a decent father to call yourself ‘dad’.”

The energy at their table had suddenly gotten immensely uncomfortable. Artoria looked away from Mordred and slurped her soup loudly.

To her surprise, Mordred scooted closer to her, pressing herself against her side and tucking her head under her chin.

“...whenever you’re ready to try. I’m here.”

Artoria suddenly felt her heart beat very fast, and she had to resist the urge to place a kiss on Mordred’s forehead. Even this far away from Camelot, this deep into their rekindled relationship --

“You might have to wait for me to get my arm back, Mordred.”

Mordred shrugged and took another bite of her food. “Then I’ll wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ULTRA-SECRET MEGA STUPID PART
> 
> Lancelot howled with rage as the strangely tall, full-bodied version of his king approached his section of Chaldea. “Arrrrthuuuuuurrrrr!!!”
> 
> “Ah, poor Lancelot. You know, you’re still my trusted left-hand knight, even after all this time.”
> 
> For a moment, the Berserker’s rage dimmed in confusion, abating just enough to try and solve the obvious puzzle. “You…. missing… left… hand…”
> 
> Artoria nodded. “This is true. Fuck off and die, you bastard.” She held up her right hand in a gesture she had taken from Mordred, along with the particular arrangement of her cutting words.
> 
> Lancelot let out a bellowing screech that shook the nearby doors. “AAARRRRRRRRRTHUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR --”

**Author's Note:**

> a very different sort of fic this time. part of my "i accidentally got Feelings from fanart and i had to process it by writing this"
> 
> i have more of these. almost all of them are about Mordred. on god I will finish the smut that i prefer writing before coming back to this


End file.
